


you didn't even notice (when the sky turned blue)

by alpacas



Category: Dragon Quest Series, Dragon Quest XI
Genre: M/M, also can i just state for the record that sylv is The Best?, and now it's just straight up Gay, at first i had this story as just 'implied' hendrik/sylvando, but then i wrote more of it, eventual spoilers for part three, good thanks, i will have classy gay knights THANKS, in flashback form, look ya'll can keep your erik/hero, spoilers for part two, there are some heavily alluded to Sexual Acts between consenting teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 08:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16260452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacas/pseuds/alpacas
Summary: the 'hendrik-and-sylvando-are-uncomfortable-exes' fanfic you never knew you wanted!





	1. you didn't even notice (when the sky turned blue)

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK. YOU GUYS. THIS SHIP. IS SO GOOD. also: MAJOR spoilers for part two of the game, specifically Sylvando's backstory/childhood knight friends? I'm not sure if we know how old they were during this period, but I'm assuming young-ish teenagers. I'm also assuming they were Very Gay. 
> 
> I went to great lengths to avoid giving The Hero a name in this story, so sorry if that's a bit stilted — also I do hope I do Sylv justice here, because frankly he's the star we all deserve and needs justice. 
> 
> Title from Bloc Party's 'Blue Light.'

Hendrik awakes from a dream where the world still makes sense. He had been in the training yard of Don Rodrigo… yes… a shining bright day…

The moths clear from his mind as he awakens. No. His bed rocks with the ship: he is on the _Salty Stallion_ , and the world has ended.

The company had departed Puerto Valor two days ago; it will be another day or two until they make port at Zwaardsrust. A quiet voyage, so far. His cabin is quiet as well, but for Lord Robert's quiet snoring. He ought to go back to sleep — but Hendrik has woken so suddenly and abruptly he knows that will not be possible. His heart is pounding, and he tries to hold onto the fragments of his dream… Puerto Valor. He'd been fifteen. No, sixteen. On the beach with the other squires… Norberto as always leading the way…

Perhaps fresh air will do him well.

The _Salty Stallion_ is… unlike any ship Hendrik has ever had passage upon. The interior, from galley to cabins, is largely red and pink, laid out more as an estate home than a warship: there are _carpets_ , and meals served upon fine porcelain. Two days, and Hendrik is still not used to it, where the others seem to take it in stride. They had lain anchor for the evening in a cove, and the ship hardly rocks: he could almost imagine he is still on land.

The night, when he emerges onto the foredeck, is hazy and dim: the way all nights have been since Yggdrasil's fall, as if the light of the stars and moon is impeded by some far-off mist. They do not burn lanterns at night, to keep monsters from noticing the ship, but Hendrik sees a pair of lamps burning at the fore, shadows moving in their glow. He grips the hilt of his sword, wishing he had taken the time to armor himself belowdecks —

But no sooner has he thought this than he has approached close enough to recognize the moving figure as Norberto's.

Nay. Sylvando's. Or Sylv, as the Luminary and Lord Robert cheerfully refer to him as, as all his followers had cheered him as. _Sylv_. Hendrik had not recognized him for a long time. He is not certain he does now.

In the foggy starlight, _Sylvando_ is not jumping about, twirling, or performing card tricks to the waves. He is quite alone, barechested, practicing swordsplay.

Something stirs and awakens in Hendrik's chest: Recognition. Sharp and dizzying. The sounds of Sylvando's footfalls, his heavy breaths, the rhythm of each blow to each invisible enemy. Each blow cast with precise force, hitting precisely the same spot of air, precision that Hendrik can appreciate because he has done the same exercises, the same movements, his arms burning and lungs bursting for more air, Don Rodrigo standing behind them, his presence heavy: _Better! You must do better!_

 

 

He had resented Norberto. Resented him, aye. For being younger and slighter but perhaps still more skilled than Hendrik, for being Don Rodrigo's blood where Hendrik was merely his squire —

There had been half a dozen or so of them, knights in training, Norberto not the eldest or strongest but leader by virtue of blood — not simply Don Roberto's blood, but something in his own body that drew the other boys to him, behind him, into every strange adventure. Once he had lead them to the pub — a treat, for Feliciano's birthday!, Norberto had said. They were allowed in the pub, but on this evening there had been a show, women in provocative bunny outfits, the squires would never have been allowed — the other boys had crowded the stage, gone off to get ale; Norberto had hung behind, a satisfied look in his eyes. So had Hendrik — he'd been too shy to talk to the women. Any of them. Any woman at all, really, back then.

 _Is this not to your taste?_ Norberto had asked, in his way — the way where you couldn't tell if he was teasing or concerned or merely interested.

Hendrik hadn't known how to reply, in any case. _Is it to yours?_ he had muttered, thinking also: your father wouldn't approve. Do you not respect him enough to obey? Do you take your luck in being his son so lightly? Hendrik would not change his future as a Knight of Heliodor for anything — except perhaps to be Don Rodrigo's heir, a true knight, unsurpassed.

 _Oh, I love ** _everyone_** ,_ Norberto had said lightly, gesturing out at the drooling men and coy women filling the pub. An admission. It had also been a come on, one that Hendrik had not picked up on at the time.

 

 

… He should not be thinking of this. Not now, nearly twenty years later, on the deck of a ship after the end of the world. Hendrik clears his throat loudly.

Sylvando freezes as if hit by one of Lord Robert's spells — his eyes comically wide, darting towards Hendrik. Then — "Eek!" he shrieks, dropping his wooden sword and covering his torso with both arms, as if to preserve his modesty — or hide the muscle his loose shirts usually hide. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Only a moment," Hendrik hazards.

"Hmph!" Sylvando turns his back to him, to the barrel his shirt rests upon. Hendrik watches his back as he redresses, his hair sticking sweaty to the back of his neck. "Well, I suppose now you know my secret," Sylvando continues impetuously.

"Training ought not to be a secret," Hendrik says at once. "Diligence is to be admired. It's a knightly —"

"Not another word," Sylvando interrupts, his impatience no longer sounding so feigned. "Didn't we go over this? I'm just a plain ol' entertainer these days, ha -" And here he cuts himself off, likely before he can call Hendrik _honey_. He isn't sure if he should feel offended.

"And yet you chose to practice swordsmanship at night," Hendrik argues, crossing his arms. "Are you so ashamed?"

"Of swordsmanship? Of course not," Sylvando trills. "Rule number one of showmanship: never let them see you _try_." He extends one arm gracefully, his legs crossed elegantly at the ankles: muscle and arms covered with his jester's shirt, it's easier to imagine him as just that. "Your every action, every movement, must be as gentle and as effortless as though you just _happened_ —" with a clever twist of his fingers and wrist, Sylvando's fingers now clasp a card — Ace of Hearts — he summoned out of thin air. Or more likely, his sleeve. "— to accidentally stumble into it." He smirks elegantly over to Hendrik — who is careful to keep his face expressionless, arms crossed. His default expression has become stern over the years, and he's not displeased to see his childhood fellow's expression falter. "Not that a big brute like you would understand," Sylvando huffs, making the Ace vanish once more.

"You think I don't understand perfection?" Hendrik says gruffly, because it's about the same thing, is it not? A true knight, a true warrior, must be calculated, in control. Careful. Precise. The same casual movement of Sylvando's fingers, drawing a card — that can be a blade. The careful stepping of his feet — that can be a stance to absorb, redirect a blow.

"How sweet of you to call me that," Sylvando flutters.

Hendrik isn't fooled.

"Besiiides," Sylvando drawls, "last time I practiced out in the open, our dear Luminary wanted to train with me."

"I would be honored if he asked me to drill him in swordsmanship," Hendrik says stiffly: Sylvando seems bored by the prospect, and yet the Luminary is the world's best hope — and still a novice with swords, owing to his youth and backwater upbringing. Had Hendrik — well, not been trying to kill him, in those misguided earlier times — but had he had the opportunity to take the boy under his wing…

"Was that a rebuke?" Sylvando seems nearly delighted. "You never change, do you? Stiff, serious Hendy!"

"You've become unrecognizable," Hendrik says tersely at the nickname.

"Oh, I'm quite the same as I ever was, honey," Sylvando says, not biting back the endearment this time, sweeping his arm grandly to indicate himself and the ship and the dim moonlight.

 

 

 _Why are you always so serious, Hendy_? Norberto had asked him once.

It had really been Norberto's fault. He'd been going on about some sort of rare glowing sea creature that migrated past Puerto Valor only once a year, to spawn in the open sea. He'd gone on and on about it. You'll be back in Heliodor this time next year, and so you simply must come see — that sort of thing. So Hendrik had agreed, crept out through his window past midnight. He'd expected the usual gang, but it was just him and Norberto, creeping out of the city, up to the cape…

The low tide had shone an electric blue, sparking in the bright moonlight. Hendrik had crouched in the sand, eyeing each bright wave as it lapped to his toes; Norberto had stripped off his shoes and stockings and waded knee deep. The water shone and gleamed and illuminated him from below — Hendrik watched, on the shore, the bluish glow shining on Norberto's slim ankles, the absent way he pursed his lips and retied the ribbon holding back his hair — and then Norberto had looked up at him, eyes narrow, smiling. _You're looking at me again, honey_ , he'd drawled, an imitation of one of the bunny girls at the pub —

 

 

It's strange, how clearly Hendrik can remember. Every word. Every sound. The lapping of the water against the hull of the _Stallion_ , the lapping of the waves on the beach…

Then: Sylvando is directly in front of him, flicking his forehead. Hendrik flinches back, but not in time to avoid the hit — startled. Had he been so lost in memory? How had Sylvando slipped right through his guard? Sylvando brings his fist to his mouth, laughing delicately. "Your face! Why so dreamy tonight, honey?"

It's clearly unintentional: three days traveling with the new version of Norberto has made clear that his use of endearments is nigh compulsory, made clear that neither the Luminary or Lord Robert so much as bat an eye at his endless mountains of affection — but it echoes the past so closely that Hendrik feels his entire brain stutter:

Norberto, his hair long and undone, Hendrik clutching the silk ribbon in his fist: pressed against the cliffside, pressing the younger teen against the stone, ankle deep in water both: he opens his eyes to see Norberto, flushed, eyes screwed shut, pinned against the stone and yet it's his hand — and yet utterly in control as Hendrik shakes around him —

Sylvando, his hair sweat-stuck to his forehead, earrings glinting in the foggy light, laughing, amused, carrying himself differently, walking differently, practicing by moonlight rather than admit to knighthood —

"You confuse me," Hendrik admits honestly, rubbing his forehead. He is no longer a teenager; he has not dwelt upon these memories in years. Thought of, yes. But not dwelt. "You were not like this when you were Norberto."

"I was just like this," Sylvando corrects lightly, crossing his arms so that each hand cups an elbow. "I was afraid to let it show."

Hendrik laughs. "You? Afraid?"

 

Another memory, briefer: Norberto, walking backwards on the narrow edge of a high rooftop, balance perfect, daring the other boys to imitation.

 

Sylvando waves him off; keeps waving his hand. "You haven't changed at all either. Serious, honorable, boring…"

That stings. "Those are not faults."

Sylvando leans against the ship's rail, his back to the sea, against his elbows: his legs stretched before him. Most of his weight held on his arms, but he does not tremble. "Who said they were, honey?" He sighs again, that dramatic, theatrical way.

"You dragged me outside the manse often enough." He hesitates, careful not to let it show, and joins his old — old friend? — at the rail. Looking out towards the sea.

"I had to make sure you had some fun sometimes!" Sylvando laughs. "You might say you were my first little experiment. My first soldier of smile!"

 

 

They'd been caught — not there on the beach the night of the glowing tide, not doing… that. But re-entering Puerto Valor. It was forbidden for squires to be out of bed, let alone out of the city past curfew. Hendrik had taken his punishment dolefully: the extra chores, the extra training, the seclusion in his room. He had wanted that seclusion, to consider and reconsider that night. It had been Norberto's fault, really. He hadn't been able to get him out of his mind. The blue light on his skin.

He had half expected Norberto to appear at his window, crawling through — he had before, to lure Hendrik and the other boys on some adventure or another. But he had not. No matter how Hendrik had hoped and fantasized.

 

 

"And into trouble as well," Hendrik muses, looking out at the dark sea.

"Oh, only a little trouble," Sylvando says airily.

"Do you remember — the night we were caught sneaking back into Puerto Valor?" He'd not certain what possesses him to ask, when he's only just been reacquainted with Norberto/Sylvando, when it's only been a few days, and this the first time they'd spoken alone. Or perhaps that is why. Sylvando is not the boy from the beach — but his sharp eyes, the muscle in his frame —

"Of course, darling. The famed blue tide — I love it every time I see." Sylvando presses one hand to his breast, eyes closed in amplified remembrance. "I wonder if there will be one this year," he says, suddenly more somber, turning to look out at the water. "I wonder if there will be one ever again."

He did not allude to their encounter, and so Hendrik does not either. "I was under probation for a month after that," he says, "and you escaped punishment entirely. It's not so bad to have a sense of responsibility." It comes out more bitter than he wants or is needed for an event so long ago: he's thinking of how Sylvando said _every time_ , and he's too old to be annoyed by that.

"Who said I was not punished?" Sylvando asks, sounding curious.

"I did not see you the entire time of my seclusion."

"Papi was so cross with me," Sylvando says distantly. "He really felt like you were better than…" a look of uncharacteristic seriousness, a shadow, crosses Sylvando's face. But that isn't so: the expression, the pursed lips, the crease in his brow: it is characteristic. It's looking at Norberto again, after all this time.

Until now, Hendrik had never realized how often his friend had looked unhappy.

"Your father did not think I was better than you," he says, releasing one hand from the rail, turning to face Sylvando — a bit too close, in his fervor, but the other man looks unalarmed.

"Well, not before I ran away!" Sylvando says with a somewhat strained brightness. "Anyhoo, I was punished _terribly_ , but I knew the trick you didn't. If Papi ordered double training for a month, you just do five sessions a day and you're done in a week."

"That's impossible! You'd collapse and die!" Hendrik says with fervor.

"Would you?" Sylvando's voice is mysterious, and he's back to his old self. His new self. His _self_. He laughs at Hendrik's dumbfounded expression. "But honey," he says, pressing his fingers to his lips, batting — actually batting! — his eyes up at him, "I didn't know that night meant so much to you. Was I your first?"

Hendrik feels his face grow hot, but the man's voice is more gentle than teasing.

"But not your last, I hope," Sylvando continues, looking up at the sky for discretion.

"No," he says gruffly. Hot with embarrassment. He had hoped, in his time of seclusion, hoped and imagined — for what, exactly, he did not know; he did not imagine romance, flowers, had not at that age known it was possible with a man — he had simply wanted more, more of that, more of Norberto, flush between his arms. But a month had passed, and then they had made no mention of it. Norberto flirting with bar maids and teasing the other boys. It wasn't long at all after that before the fight, before Norberto left Puerto Valor, never to return with that name. "You?" he asks, his voice rough with embarrassment.

"Oh, I love _everyone_ ," Sylvando says blithely, probably unaware of the repetition. Or utterly aware. Don't let them see the effort. Let them think it's all an accident, Hendrik thinks.

"Why - why did you? That night?" he asks, reverting to the language of his teenage years, unable to put it more plainly.

Sylvando shrugs. Twirls neatly on his heel and stands beside Hendrik, elbows on the rail, looking out at the sea with his chin cupped in one hand. "I was jealous, of course," he says, his voice serious, free of its usual modulation. "You wanted to be a knight so badly, and I wanted nothing less in the world!" He smiles at Hendrik, sideways, sly, mouth curling through his fingers. This boy — this boy who had a life Hendrik could only dream of, would have wanted nothing more than to be born into — doing things his way, dragging others along in his wake.

He shakes his head and looks back out towards the waves. "You haven't changed," Hendrik says in delayed agreement.

"Say, honey," Sylvando — Norberto — says at last, "If we save the world and fix Yggdrasil, you think there'll be another blue tide?"

"Don't see why not," Hendrik replies.

"So let's go!" Hendrik glances over, and Sylvando winks slyly up at him. "For old time's sake, yeah?"

"I'd like to spar sometime," Hendrik replies, feeling oddly at ease, oddly happy.

"I'm out of practice," Sylvando says sulkily, slumping against the rail.

"We could go see the tide."

"We could spar once or twice, I _suppose_."

Hendrik is smiling. Sylvando's eyes are narrow as a cat's, focused on the dark water, smiling and searching for a glimmer of blue light.


	2. don't remember it; don't sing along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THIS IS A SERIES NOW?????
> 
> okay quick notes!! 
> 
> \-- i'm going with the name Robin for Our Hero: connotations of spring, new beginnings, rebirth, and named after his lord grandfather, in his honor: called Robby by eleanor and irwin. amber redubbed him her dear robin, finding robert too formal a name for such a wee lad; that's then what he's gone by his whole life. OR SOMETHING. anyway, hero/11/luminary = robin.
> 
> \-- this chapter's track is 'i'm sorry i love you' by the magnetic fields
> 
> \-- this entire story's summary is "hendrik has a huge gigantic gay boner for sylv, THE SERIES." 
> 
> \-- gaaaayyyyy

Robin and Lord Robert alike had expressed an interest in the nightmares haunting the Warrior's Rest Inn, and so the party had agreed to stay the night. Hendrik would rather have continued onward — it was not his place to argue with the Luminary, and so he would not, but too long in the Zwaardrust region always left him adrift in memory.

An affliction he had already been too struck with since leaving Puerto Valor.

Leaving Dave behind to repair the _Stallion_ , ( _"'s alright, mate. I'm just as fine left w' the ship, 'n Sylv 'n the Boss know I get shy 'round crowds."_ ) the party of four arrive at the Warrior's Rest in the early afternoon, the day bright by the standards of the world's end. They rent rooms and go their separate ways: Lord Robert to chat with the innkeep, Robin to have a look at the stabled horses, Hendrik to get in some practice in the yard, and the object of Hendrik's recent (renewed) obsession —

"Oh, I'm taking a _bath_!" Sylvando sighs loudly, stretching his arms above his head. "I swear I still have sand in my hair! No one bother me! But you can if you want, darling," he'd added, draping an arm around Robin's shoulder. The boy laughs.

"Would you mind taking my coat?" he asks, unperturbed by Sylvando's weight on him.

"Of course not, honey. I've been eyeing that tear all morning."

Robin shrugs off his jacket — now that Hendrik looks, he can see a tear on the hem, likely from the Luminary's spill into the sea the day before. He hands it to Sylvando, thanking him; Sylvando waves him off. "Need anything hemmed up, granddad?" Sylvando asks Lord Robert.

"Oh, I'm well, laddie," Lord Robert replies. He glances towards Hendrik with a smile. "Sylv here does all our darning when need arises."

"Just doing my teeny little part to help out!" Sylvando says brightly, turning to Hendrik for the first time in hours. At least. Not that he's noticed. Does his smile falter? "What about you? Need anything patched up?" Is his expression a little colder?

"No, thank you," Hendrik says.

"Fine!" Sylvando flicks a stray hair, escaped from his careful arrangement, out of his face. "No one bother me until dinner, my darlings."

 

 

Hendrik doesn't notice. He does not.

It's fine.

 

 

He had always noticed Norberto. From the very first day he'd arrived for his training, the first time he'd laid eyes upon him — he can still remember it clearly. He'd been wearing a white shirt with ruffles at the hem and sleeves, a jacket the color of the seas around Puerto Valor, black slim trousers over long slim legs. Norberto's hair had been longer back then, tied back with a ribbon he'd usually match to his outfit or eyes. He'd been as pretty as any girl Hendrik had seen — prettier. But there was no mistaking Norberto for a girl, even with his youth, his fine clothes. He had a tall lankiness about him. Broad shoulders, large hands, ears too large for his narrow face.

Don Rodrigo had introduced them: Norberto is the best of all my apprentices. And my only son. They shared the same coloring, but Norberto looked more like the portrait of the woman in Don Rodrigo's manor, sloe-eyed and wavy haired.

"I'm so pleased to meet you," Norberto had said with a smile — and yet Hendrik still had the sense that he was anything but happy. Even then.

He'd been infatuated from the start.

It had confused Hendrik, in truth. He'd never had feelings like this, not so intently. Not for another man. (Boy, more, in those days.) He'd fancied a maid in Heliodor castle a year ago, had the usual fantasies of rescuing a fair princess or maiden, but that was the extent of his experience with love and infatuation. He hadn't known what to do, and so had done nothing. Just dreamt — fuzzy, vague fantasies, lacking in detail (he didn't know how it worked, really: his general ideas of sex were fairly vague even at sixteen). Not lacking in feeling, feeling that left him breathless when alone in the baths. The apprentice knights all went to the beach together, often enough — no other of the boys stirred him in such a way. Norberto could retie his hair ribbon and it would fuel his dreams for hours.

Luckily, Hendrik hadn't had much time for that. The training was harsh, Don Rodrigo strict and terrifying. He had excelled, he was not embarrassed to say: he was glad to train harder than anyone, work harder than anyone, if it would grant him his knighthood and he could return to Heliodor with his head held high. Within a year, he had surpassed all the other apprentices — all but one.

 

 

Of late, Hendrik has chosen to pick up the sword again, over the axe he had favored the past few years. Robin has great promise for one so young and relatively untrained, and it's Hendrik's (somewhat proud) hope that he might be able to teach the Luminary, lead him in example. As well, seeing Don Rodrigo again… it's left him a bit nostalgic. They were good days, back in Puerto Valor.

As the afternoon creeps forward, Hendrik is lost in his training: practicing swordplay and thrusts through repetition. One hundred blows. Two hundred. It clears his mind as it always has: his worries for the world. His worries for his king. Jasper, never far from the shadows of his heart. Robin: hero, Luminary — made quiet from loss and the gravity of his situation.

Hendrik stops his practicing to catch his breath. Feeling a prickle in his neck, he turns towards the inn: the door is open to catch the afternoon breeze, but no shadow lingers in the doorway. He sees a flash of red from the second floor.

Nor — Sylvando is watching him, from the rail surrounding the inn's second floor, his arms crossed atop the railing. His ridiculous jester's uniform is off, leaving him in his undershirt and trousers — his hair still limp from his bath, lying lank down his neck. He is not so far away that Hendrik cannot make out his expression, although he does not know what to make of it: somber. Displeased?

"Will you train with me?" Hendrik calls up to him — as he had many times, many years ago. Or hadn't needed to call. Norberto had been on the training grounds as often as he had. How much of that was an unhappy boy, trying to live up to the role he'd been born in to?

Above him, Sylvando rests his chin on the back of one hand. "No way, honey," he calls down. But he doesn't move inside, back to his preening and mending.

Hendrik returns to his training. Working himself harder now, wishing to prove or show something to his old friend — show that he still takes those days seriously, the training seriously, did not throw it away. Or to show that he is skilled, he is capable, he —

… Is too old to be fretting over someone like this. Sylvando is Norberto, but he is also not. Truth be told, the loud, silly man is still nearly unrecognizable to Hendrik. Norberto had been loud at times, cheerful at times — at times. But not often, by the end.

 

 

There had been a tournament, just before Noberto had left Puerto Valor for good. It had lasted days, each apprentice and squire dueling the others in turn, until all had been tested several times and only Hendrik and Noberto were left. Their match had been on the final day of the tournament, which had dawned hot and bright. Much of Puerto Valor turned out to watch: even then, they had been well known, the two of them. Hendrik, tall and strong for his age, who trained rather than let his height do work for him, already promised to the King of Heliodor. And Norberto, tall, yes, but slight and fair, charming and popular, the Don's own heir.

Hendrik was stronger, heavier, with a longer reach, but Norberto was more skilled with a blade, sure-footed and graceful. He had entered the arena with a rose in his fingers, kissed its petals and given it to a swooning maiden with a wink: bent on one knee and begged her prettily for a favor, a ribbon he'd used to tie back his hair. Hendrik had stood there the whole time, feeling huge and awkward and clumsy, silent as Norberto flirted with the crowd.

The battle had not been brief, but Norberto's victory, when it came, was decisive: Hendrik on his back, hands bracing against the ground, sword ten feet away, the tip of Noberto's sword at his chin, the boy smiling down at him, his eyes narrow as a cat's. He was sorry to lose, but not ashamed to lose to an opponent so skilled, one who had turned immediately to his father for validation, Don Rodrigo openly proud. The ribbon come loose in the boy's hair.

(He'd imagined it all later on. Noberto smug above him, but much closer, and not a rose he pressed his lips against — oh, he was only seventeen. It could not be helped, how badly he had wanted—)

Not a fortnight later, Noberto was gone, rumors of his fight with Don Rodrigo spreading like flames. In Norberto's room: a long hank of black hair, cut off before the mirror, still tied with its ribbon.

 

 

When Hendrik glances up again, the shadows are getting long and Robin has joined Sylvando in watching from the balcony. They're talking: Sylvando smiling at the boy, who points down at Hendrik.

He has no idea what they're talking about, aside that it clearly involves him. He choses to use his audience as inspiration to train just a bit longer, a bit harder: to show the Luminary his worth (if not also his old friend).

A fragment of conversation is carried to him, as if by magic or the force of memory, the force of the past seeping from the Zwaardrustian air:

Sylvando's voice, his Valorian accent unmistakable and thick as it ever was, in answer to some unheard question: "— makes me think about the past."

Him as well? Hendrik pauses, looking back up to the balcony. Robin, stern, is speaking to Sylvando, his chin in his palms, a sulky expression on his face: Robin points down to Hendrik, and both men look down upon him, staring up, his sword loose in his hand.

Sylvando straightens himself up, abruptly. "Okay, honey," he says, his voice loud and carrying, intended to be heard even by those in the back of the theater: he puffs out his breast —

And then, a movement too quick for Hendrik to even follow — Sylvando launches himself from the inn's second storey, flips in the air, and lands gracefully on his toes before Hendrik, lifting his chin, holding Robin's sword in his right hand.

"W - what?" Hendrik stammers, surprised.

"You wanted to spar, no?" Sylvando brushes his hair behind his ear. Still damp from his bath, free of its usual gel holding it in place, it's still much shorter than when they were teenagers, but long enough to show a hint of his mother's waves.

"I asked you to train beside me," Hendrik corrects. As a grown man, Sylvando has lost some of his youthful lankiness. His shoulders are broad in a way that belies his sometimes girlish behavior; his ears are still too large for his face.

"And I'm asking you to fight, _honey_ ," Sylvando says, raising the tip of his sword, his expression stubborn and defiant and heart-wrenchingly familiar.

Sylvando hadn't lied aboard the _Stallion_ : he is clearly out of practice with a blade, less than the peak he had reached decades ago before trading swords and knighthood for magic tricks and colorful balls. But he was once possibly the finest swordsman in all of Erdrea. Not tired from a day's training, armored, with the use of spells, Hendrik is certain he would prevail over his old friend, win this sudden rematch. Had Sylvando remained Norberto, however —

They spar, unarmored, fast, Sylvando's expression taut with a fervor Hendrik does not remember, taking the offensive, his blows telegraphed, obvious, but his stance firm, certain. There in the training yard, those years ago: younger, quicker, Hendrik had taken the lead, had wanted — wanted so desperately not merely to win, but to defeat Norberto in some way, to show him, the boy he so admired, so desired, that he was skilled too, that he could lead and perhaps Norberto could fall admiringly into his shadow — He had fought him and Noberto had dodged gracefully, easily, spun him and defeated him too suddenly for Hendrik to understand how.

Noberto had known how he'd felt, and proven it one night on a beach in glowing blue waters, taken him and spun him a different way, controlling Hendrik without him even noticing how, and then left him confused and alone and left his name, his face, his unhappiness behind.

 _Makes me think about the past_. What must Noberto had thought, about the obvious, awkward boy with an obvious, awkward crush? What does he think now? What does Hendrik think, about this man who he'd dismissed as silly and strange, this man who is Noberto in each precise blow of his borrowed sword?

Sylvando — Norberto — telegraphs his downward slash and Hendrik blocks it with ease. For a moment they're face to face, breath to breath. Norberto smirks. "You were watching me again," he says in a low, teasing voice, a glint in his gray eyes.

"And what were you doing up there?" he replies. Norberto eases up on the pressure and Hendrik pushes back, strikes and causes the other man to dodge, much quicker on his feet than with his blade.

"You think you're the only one dreaming about the good old days, honey?" Norberto drawls. He strikes in nearly the exact same way, and Hendrik blocks him once more.

"You're rusty," he says.

"But I'm matching you, darling! What does that say for your skills?" Noberto lowers his blade to tap his chin with one slender finger, his expression overblown puzzlement.

 

 

"You really, really want to be a knight, don't you?" Norberto had asked one evening, _that_ evening, on their way to the beach where Hendrik would shortly be granted all his fantasies. He did not yet know it. Had he, he would have been too nervous to answer.

The road was dark, but the moon bright and path well lit. Norberto a few steps ahead, his fingers laced at the back of his head.

"Of course I do," Hendrik had said. "Isn't that obvious? What else would I want to be?"

"Hmm," Norberto had drawled. "A… salesman? An innkeep? An entertainer? A bunny girl at the casino?"

"I've wanted to serve my king since I was a child," Hendrik had replied, his hand over his heart. "I will serve him and the princess with my life, now and when a true knight."

"Hmmm," Norberto said, somehow investing the sound itself with doubt.

"Surely you understand," Hendrik said, feeling like somehow he was being made fun of. "You're Don Rodrigo's treasured heir. You may be the greatest swordsman in all of Puerto Valor."

"Oh, please don't get into that," Norberto had said, unclasping his hands to wave one dismissively.

"I would be proud in your position."

"For being born?" Norberto asked sardonically.

"For being born, yes, but you did not become the knight you are simply from having been born."

"I don't want to talk about knighthood right now," he replied. Norberto laughed bitterly, looking out towards the lighthouse on the cape. "When I think about all that, I just want to hurl myself off the cape into the ocean."

Hendrik had been lost for words, too shocked to reply — to tell if it was a joke, or an admission. But surely it was a joke. A poor joke, to be sure, and yet —

"Look!" Noberto said, turning, pointing to the shore, the lapping waves, his voice as cheerful as if he had not just admitted to misery: "Look down there! The water's so bright, _mi cariño!_ "

Hendrik's heart stopped, all doubts forgotten: the word, the boy, the glowing blue tide.

 

 

They spar, Hendrik flagging, his strength tapped from his afternoon of work: Norberto full of energy, fighting flashier and more performative to cover his lapses in practice and skill. As ever, with swordplay alone, they are evenly matched.

Robin has fetched his grandfather, and Lord Robert and the Luminary are part of a small crowd watching the duel, standing clear to give the men plenty of room. Hendrik barely sees them, barely perceives anything but the man before him, but Norberto only grows flashier, more performative with an audience: spinning and blowing kisses between thrusts. His hair is mussed from movement and drying in waves — shorter but looking so much like the past that it emboldens Hendrik, makes him wish to win that much more, makes him want Norberto to take him seriously —

He strikes and Norberto dodges gracefully, giving Robin in the crowd a little bow — returning the thrust with one of his own, with no real strength behind it, one Hendrik easily deflects. He is no longer even trying, and it enrages him with an odd sort of jealousy.

With a cry, Hendrik thrusts forward; Norberto does not block but parries, twirling around, then striking so fast, out of the corner, that Hendrik does not see —

And then remembers: the heat of the arena. Norberto's ribbon, his token, trailing behind him as he turns, the satisfied expression on his face as he strikes from the corner —

"You think you can defeat me with the same trick twice?" he snaps, blocking the blow but only just.

Norberto smiles wide. "Never, _mi cariño_ ," he says —

Hendrik stumbles —

And Norberto slides into the opening — "I think it'll work at least three times more," he says, reaching out and tapping Hendrik on the center of the forehead with one slender finger, " _Honey._ You think you're the only one with memories?" he asks softly, as Hendrik stands dumbfounded, as Lord Robert leads the crowd in applause for the victor.

"Who -" Hendrik stammers, his face growing hot.

Whirling away to take his bow, Sylvando, beaming, bright, happy, simply laughs.


	3. those were our times, those were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is shockingly not gay. but also it's still gay. apparently this is slow burn gay. who knew!
> 
> chapter's song is postcards from italy by beirut.
> 
> warning for: blatant spanish to prove obscure character points that are then not explained in the text but relate to memory and reinvention as a trope and subversion. i don't speak spanish but i asked a friend who does.

The shade of King Irwin melts into foggy black, and the dungeon is suddenly so silent Hendrik can hear his heart racing. Robin stands frozen before him, his left hand still outstretched towards the shade that had been his father — Lord Robert takes a shaky step towards the boy. No doubt to offer comfort. Explanation. Explanation that Hendrik himself owes, must give —

He had not known! Of course, of course — of course he would have had no way of knowing, of guessing, that his King had been possessed, his King who has since forgiven him his lapse in service, and yet — Hendrik had seen the image of his twenty year old self. Only moments after his King had murdered King Irwin. Had he been there a moment sooner — had he thought to question King Irwin's death — how many lives would have not been lost? How would the course of events — Had only he —

"I must apologize," he says, his voice harsh in the silence of the room. "I had not imagined –"

And Sylvando grabs him roughly by the elbow and yanks him backwards.

Hendrik's hand goes to his sword reflexively, but Sylvando continues to drag him and he stumbles, follows, as Sylvando calls out a cheery: "Back in a mo', darlings," his expression not at all matching his tone.

Outside of the chamber, Sylvando marches them a few more paces down the edge of the old canal, relinquishing his grip on Hendrik's arm after another moment. "What in Erdrea —" he asks, at the same time that Sylvando brandishes his finger at Hendrik, speaking with unusual heat. "This is not the time for you to throw yourself into the story, honey. Sweet Robin and Gramps just saw their family die, and they don't need to hear about the feelings of a big stupid knight who wandered onstage in the last second."

Hendrik stands frozen. Then he covers his face with his hand as embarrassment rushes through him. "I had not considered!"

"No, no, you were so overcome by your own misplaced guilt you just charged in," Sylvando says with some amusement in his voice, crossing his arms.

And yet… does he not bear some of the guilt? Intruding on a private moment of grief, he may have been, but to forgo an apology, a begging of forgiveness…? Surely Lord Robert and the Luminary would note his silence. The images flash before him again: King Irwin falling. The darkness enveloping King Carnelian. Himself, moments too late…

"It's alright, you know," Sylvando says presently — how long Hendrik had been standing lost in thought, he does not know, but when he looks over, his old friend's expression is somber, sympathetic. He splays his hand over his breast. "I'm devastated just seeing it, and I was on the other side of the world when Dundrasil fell."

"I had never realized, just how close…" Hendrik sighs, frustrated. "I had not until recently realized my King was taken hostage, so how could I have known? Yet seeing that had I been on the scene moments sooner, I may have prevented King Irwin's death…"

"I wish you wouldn't think too much about that, darling," Sylvando says, his tone sharp in a way that doesn't match the casual endearment, in a way Hendrik doesn't understand. "I'm glad you weren't there on time to be ordered to kill Robin's papi."

With a cold shudder, a wave of dark dread, Hendrik understands Sylvando's sharpness. How is it that a man who renounced knighthood and fealty understands before he himself?

They stand in the damp hall for a time in silence, Hendrik lost in thought and memory. Replaying the visions and his memories again and again. He cannot help it. Would he have killed King Irwin, had he been ordered?

Without question.

But such paths are well-trod: he's spent weeks poring his memories for clues that his King had been influenced, for signs he had missed. Aside from the obvious, aside from his talk of the Darkspawn —

Sylvando jabs the side of his head with two thin fingers, as if to knock his very thoughts askew. "You're dwelling, honey."

"So I am," Hendrik admits.

"Were you always this brooding? I don't remember." Hours in the damp underground of Dundrasil's ruins has begun to take its toll on Sylvando's carefully arranged hair; he tugs at it and attempts to curl a lock around his fingers absently. Hendrik catches himself watching.

"Perhaps we've both changed with the years," he says, looking back towards the canal, the water green gray with silt and moss.

"I can't remember," Sylvando says suddenly, loudly. "Grandpappy likes to tell his old stories and answer questions. He's lived such a fun life, it's no trouble at all. Robin likes a bit of petting when he's sad — no, _así no_ , he simply likes to be soothed a little, he _is_ just a boy."

Hendrik understands now what Sylvando is saying, one hand on his hips, the other gesticulating in the air. "Serena is the same, although the dear tries so hard not to let on when she's upset. Ronnie darling, of course, would sooner _die_ than admit she's sad, so you have to take a subtle approach cheering her up. Dear Jade just needs some tea and sympathy. Erik is by _far_ the worst of them, but he's cute, so…"

"I do not require you to comfort me," Hendrik says gently. To his surprise, he can feel himself nearly smile. "My — mistakes are mine alone."

Since their fight a fortnight ago, the air had cleared between them: this was often the case, Hendrik had found. A practice fight was often just what was needed to remove doubts and bad feeling. Specters of the past. Yet while they had resumed friendly relations in the weeks since, they had not often… chatted. As it were. Not individually, without Robin or Lord Robert around the same campfire.

"I've been wracking my brain," Sylvando continues, frowning, near petulant, crossing his arms now. "I can't remember you ever once being sad."

"You wouldn't," Hendrik says, and now he does smile. "I was never happier than I was in Puerto Valor."

Sylvando gives him an odd look — bland, nearly blank, and then his eyes grow comically wide, his hand covering his mouth. "My!" he says at last. "How utterly tragic!"

"Surely not," Hendrik says with exasperation.

Sylvando breaks and laughs. "Only you would look back on training and sweating as a happy memory! Sweet Hendrik. Always the same." He giggles, then looks up at the low stone ceiling with a sigh. "You were always talking about going back to Heliodor as a great knight."

"I was happy there too," he says. The words immediately souring in his throat. Aye, he had been happy. Happy and proud. Returning to Heliodor, to his king, the queen, the princess, Jasper — and so soon the queen had been dead, Princess Jade lost soon after, and him serving a shade in the guise of his king. Had Jasper already been lost? Even then? How had he not known? How did he know so little? The casual intimacy with which Sylvando spoke of Princess Jade — even that was lost to him. He was blind. So blind. Perhaps his words were truer than he even had realized. Hendrik _had_ been happy in Puerto Valor. The last happiness he had experienced that was not built on death and lies.

"You're doing it again, honey," Sylvando says loudly.

"Perhaps we should return to Robin and Lord Robert."

"Papi would always say to me — look at _ese muchacho_! He is singleminded. He will be a fine knight," Sylvando continues, not listening, ignoring Hendrik's first tentative steps back towards the others. "It is an excellent quality, to be so devoted. You could learn well from him, _hijo mio._ I would always tell him I'd rather jump off the cape." Rather than bitter or morose, Sylvando sounds amused, in on a joke Hendrik is missing.

"You hated it so much?" Hendrik asks, amused. Despite the insult, the fact that his simpleminded, blind loyalty is what led him to this moment, to decades of mistakes — he cannot help the warm feeling in his gut at the echo of his mentor's words. Sylvando, for all his distance, copies his father's tone fluently, even adopts a fierce expression Hendrik remembers well. He smiles.

"Darling," Sylvando says loftily, fanning his face with his hand, "haven't we gone over this a few times now?"

He hesitates. Knows what he wishes to say, but cannot find the words for a moment: it's been a long time, and perhaps this is too much. But Sylvando is still a mystery to Hendrik. Pretension and drama pretending to be someone new, yet also —

" _Sí,_ " he says clumsily, " _hablamos de ello._ " Sylvando laughs, sharp and loud and delighted. Hendrik is embarrassed, a bit pleased, but continues on: "Yet for all your reinvention, your accent remains Valorian."

" _Claro_!" Sylvando replies, grinning behind his fist, politely raised over his mouth as he peers up at Hendrik. Hendrik is suddenly embarrassed — much more than before. Had he said it wrong? It had been decades since he'd spoken Valorian, and even in Puerto Valor most of the native born spoke a messy mix of their dialect and Heliodoran —

"Of course," Sylvando repeats. "I'll tell you a secret, darling. I don't hate it." Hendrik struggles to find a reply, but Sylvando waves his hand to cut him off before he even opens his mouth. "Puerto Valor was my _home_."

"It is still," Hendrik says. "Your father would not turn you away, would you return again."

"No — but I have my word to uphold, and…" Sylvando trails off thoughtfully, then whips about, his finger thrust up at Hendrik. "Who is comforting who? I have no hidden secrets left, no fears that cause me to weep into my pillow at night! _No_ , darling, I will not allow you to change the subject! We are talking about your happy memories of the past, not mine!"

"Is that what we're discussing?" Hendrik asks, smiling. He hadn't noticed — when had he begun to smile? When had his thoughts shifted from Dundrasil, the murder he'd failed to prevent, to the sunshine of Puerto Valor? Sylvando just gives him a sly look, examining his fingernails regally.

"My failures as a knight are no secret," Hendrik says, picking up on an earlier thread, but it is not as wrenching an admission as it had felt only minutes previously. "Why else have I devoted my life to the Luminary's cause if not to atone?"

"To save the world from darkness, for a start?"

"Aye. And in weeks, he has already done more to lift the darkness than I in months."

"Well, I heard you helped a _little_ ," Sylvando says, so deadpan it's almost difficult to tell he's joking. "No, this gloomy doom act of yours is definitely new. But you were always far too serious."

"Aye, that's well true," Lord Robert calls, coming down the corridor with Robin towards them. The man's eyes and nose are reddened, a bit puffy, but he's smiling, and Robin, while subdued, follows closely after. "Don't fret, lad, it's part of your charm. Now what are ye boys doing out here?"

"Honestly, granddad, he's even worse than you are!" Sylvando says gaily, flitting over to their companions. "All he wants to do is tell stories of the past, 'remember that time we snuck into the Animal House —'" he waves his hand at Robin, "You're too young, honey, please don't ask me about it. Do you need more time?"

"I'm alright," Robin says, looking down at his left hand, a tired cast to his eyes. But he gives Sylvando a faint smile. "But I wouldn't mind hearing stories from your mysterious past either."

"Well, if _you're_ asking," Sylvando preens.

Hendrik is frowning at the brickwork ahead of him: the Animal House was a notorious tavern in Puerto Valor's red light district, one he has never set foot in, but how can he explain that? Should he say nothing? Should he apologize to Lord Robert for the very suggestion? Has Sylvando been there? What was it like? Did the men there really —

Distracted thoroughly, he follows the others outside of the tunnels, into the fresh air and fading daylight of the ruins of Dundrasil castle. (Norberto couldn't _really_ have frequented such a place — but why would he mention it? And what did he mean, implicating Hendrik —) He forgets even to practice his apologies, beg for the forgiveness of Lord Robert and the Luminary, until they've returned to their campsite, Obsidian and Robin's mare still grazing by the holy statue.

When he does apologize to Lord Robert, after dinner, he is thanked by the old man, tears in Robert's eyes. Thanked and told there was nothing he could have done, no grudge that could be held against him. Robin watches the apology from the other side of the campfire, merely shaking his head no when Hendrik offers his condolences and apologies for the murder of his father.

Both retire to bed early, leaving Hendrik to first watch. He's already resolved to take not just first but second and third watches, to allow Lord Robert and the Luminary rest and recovery. They will make it to Octogonia within a day, and he can go that long without sleep, rest in the city's inn tomorrow evening.

Sylvando is also usually early to bed due to the confounding amount of primping he insists upon (is _that_ new? Hendrik cannot remember Norberto primping — but then, even now that their relationship has settled from the tension of reunion, the thought of Noberto, pretty and long haired and sloe-eyed, causes a strange knot —

Well. Not so _strange_. But presently unwelcome. Undesired. Uncomfortably familiar).

Tonight, however, Sylvando sits up with Hendrik, examining his kit, gaze focused on the ebbing campfire. His expression is not serious, but nor is he smiling: his gray eyes reflecting the embers, Hendrik finds him inscrutable. Neither the boy he remembers (well, too well) or the cheerful loudmouth he's become since. "I ought to thank you," he says. His voice comes out too loud — the night is quiet. Even the nearby river seems to flow silently, and Lord Robert's usual snores are absent.

Sylvando is quiet for a moment, glancing up from the fire. "Don't be silly, honey," he says at last.

"I assure you, I am not." Sylvando huffs out a laugh. "I should thank you for your indulgence. Of me. Of late." Hendrik considers. "And of my past self as well, if necessary."

"Doesn't it ever get tiring, being so serious?" Sylvando asks, cupping his chin in his palm.

"No," he says frankly.

Sylvando smiles, thin and catlike, and Hendrik wonders what he's thinking. What he thinks. Does he find Hendrik a burden? His guilt justified or worse, silly? The awkward tall boy who had been happy, purely so, in a way that cannot be tainted by the truth now: had that happiness burdened Norberto, already planning to flee? The awkward tall boy with an awkward obvious crush, had that too weighed upon his friend? (Was that why, that night —)

Boring, Sylvando calls him. Would that Hendrik could be. Would that he could be so empty, so simple, so dull as to be incapable of his mistakes, his blindness, his shadow on the deaths of kings, loss of friends, loss of countless innocent lives… if he could just be a soldier, free of worry and moral quandary… a true knight, always on the path of the just…

Perhaps Norberto had gotten it right, all those years ago. Fleeing and changing everything in order to escape the possibility of doing your duty and doing it wrongly.

 _Yes. We've gone over this before._ He finds himself almost smiling, thinking suddenly of Sylvando's persistent accent, the neon sign pointing straight to Puerto Valor. Perhaps he is boring. Simple.

"Thinking about the Animal House?" Sylvando asks, and Hendrik is suddenly fully aware that his old friend is watching him, watching him closely, still with that sly smile.

And — that question! Of all the — "Of course not!"

"You know, it's really very nice, not at all like people say," Sylvando continues, smirking.

"You - so you've been?" Hendrik chokes. Nice? Really very nice? That infamous bar, in Puerto Valor's seediest neighborhood? "What's it like?" he demands, loudly, much too loudly. He feels his face grow hot; he hadn't exactly meant to — it had just — the _stories_ he'd heard! Whispered by the other apprentices!

Sylvando yawns, stretching his arms above his head. "Oh, I'm just pooped! Goodnight, _mi amor_!"

Over his own sputtering, racing heart, and Sylvando's cackles, Hendrik can swear he can hear Lord Robert in the tent, laughing. _Mi amor_ , he thinks, his face as hot as the campfire's embers.

Valorian accent indeed.


	4. you were knocking me down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just go ahead and assume rab spends this entire chapter wandering the stallion alone, wondering where everyone even is.
> 
> also HI, this chapter took like five turns away from what i was planning. out of ten i would say the gayness level here is 15!! the song of the chapter is joanna newsom's 'peach plum pear,' although with the chapter running away with me, i'm not sure how appropriate it still is. STILL A GREAT SONG HOWEVER.

There was something Hendrik had not anticipated about traveling with the Luminary and his companions.

Rather than linger upon her humiliation and the failure of Hendrik to rescue her from it sooner, Princess Jade had rejoined the traveling group with a backpack of supplies and good humor.

"We're better equipped than we were the first time, weren't we?" she remarks upon retrieving the horses from Octogonia's stables.

Hendrik clears his throat. "Your father the king wished to provide us with what he could before we set out from Last Bastion."

"I see. How gracious of him," Jade says, moving to pet Robin's mare. "Obsidian I recognize," she continues, sending something like a Boom spell into Hendrik's gut — she recognizes his horse? Had the princess, perhaps — "but who is this?"

"Er," says Robin, readjusting his own pack. Sylvando snickers.

Lord Robert chuckles. "Lass, may I introduce ye to her royal highness, the Queen Fillicia?"

Princess Jade, petting the mare's nose, glances from Lord Robert to the red faced Robin, and then curtsies to the mare. "It's an honor to be traveling alongside fellow royalty," she says gravely.

"Look! I was seven, and the horsier said Gemma and I could name one!" Robin bursts out, quite scarlet. "And it's just Felicia, really!"

"We've been calling her Her Highness," Sylvando says brightly.

"Naturally," Princess Jade says, eyes shining. "We wouldn't want to not show her her proper due."

"Honestly!" Robin huffs. Lord Robert laughs and pats him on the back.

As they travel south, back towards the ruins of Zwaardrust, the air rings with chatter, and it seems as though Hendrik alone is eyeing the road for monsters. With no shame for her humilations, Princess Jade recounts her path to Octogonia after the Fall; Robin recounts his own adventures, with Lord Robert and Sylvando contributing details: Sylvando at one point recreating his parade's theme music and dance to Jade's amusement and the applause of the assembled royalty.

The chatter continues into the evening, long after they return to the Warrior's Rest inn, around one of the communal tables in the inn's dining area. Jade is fascinated by Sylvando's past as Norberto, and Sylvando is happy to be the center of attention as he spins out a tale of the past that has only slight bearing on Hendrik's own memory of it; Lord Robert's retelling of their visit to Dundrasil sours the mood, but only until he and Princess Jade begin to exchange their own memories of King Irwin and Queen Eleanor for Robin's benefit and amusement. Then it is Robin's turn, sharing stories of his childhood, scoldings given by his adoptive mother, the hours he and his friend Gemma had spent drafting names for the colt they had been allowed to dub.

It makes sense to Hendrik, that Lord Robert, Princess Jade, and Robin would be friendly. So close. It warms his own heart and brings him no small relief, to see the Princess not bereft of friendship, to see the Luminary reunited with the last of his blood — and beyond that. The three all share royal blood. Were the world a different place, had Robin grown up as the prince he truly was, they would be equals, contemporaries.

And for Sylvando to insert himself in this gathering — well, by blood he _was_ in fact nobility. Had he not left home, he would one day have ruled Puerto Valor in King Carnelian's name. So perhaps he is nearly contemporary to the royals — in a way Hendrik, common born, is not…

And yet the four of them joke and laugh not as nobility but as equals.

Friends.

It is not Hendrik's place to feel — to feel left out. To feel jealous, as Princess Jade laughs at a joke Sylvando makes, Robin giggling into his mug. Hendrik is a knight, a guard, a protector. He is honored to simply be present, to sit at the same table as these friends. It is not his place.

 

 

 

A few days pass. They rejoin Dave and the _Stallion_ , heading out towards open waters. Erdwin's Star is beginning to worry Hendrik: it is often visible during the day as well as night, but had it always been so bright? It seems to get larger as they approach Gondolia, but surely that is impossible.

"Ah! There you are!" Hendrik turns from the ship's rail at Sylvando's voice, to see the man approaching with a wave. "Just the big, strong man I was looking for! Will you join me in the hold?"

"Of course," Hendrik says, peeling himself away from the rail.

Had it really been a month since their first conversation on the ship's decks? It must be so. No odd tension remains between him and Sylvando, he is pleased to see — although. Although. Two days into their journey by ship, they've all relaxed somewhat. Armor has gone unworn, and those who can fight curious sea monsters without have abandoned their weapons. Even Hendrik has gone without his surcoat, left his shield if not his blade in his quarters. Sylvando has forgone his jester's surcoat as well, forgone his usual stiff hair gel in favor of a tiny, spiky tail at the nape of his neck. It is his neck that Hendrik catches himself looking at as he follows his old friend — the curve of it, the muscle where it joins his shoulder blade. A brown freckle at the base of his neck, right at the hem of his red shirt, slipping in and out of sight as Sylvando walks —

It sends a small hot dart into Hendrik's stomach, lower. He's never noticed it before, he would remember, in such a perfect —

"Here we are," Sylvando says, ignorant of his current train of thought, a thought that starts and ends with what it would feel like, what it would be like, to push his old friend against the cabin wall, to taste that skin, that spot, the back of his neck, right at the shoulder, holding him still with both hands, pushing himself against his back, against him, grinding up and pushing and biting, and Norberto would reach up, grasping blindly behind him, pulling Hendrik's head closer, gasping, making sounds —

Sylvando dumps a box of potatoes and carrots into Hendrik's arms. He grasps it only on reflex, dazed, completely lost in his fantasies of fucking the man before him into the wall — Sylvando looks politely puzzled. "Okay there, honey?"

"O - of course!" Hendrik sputters. Blushes. Wishes his hands were free to cover his face. Sylvando narrows his eyes up at him, but doesn't pursue the unasked question.

"We're running low on stores, but I don't know where to buy more, the way things are," Sylvando says, as if in response to some unsaid query: as Hendrik stands still, willing his body and mind back under his control, Sylvando wipes his brow and adds a few more root vegetables to the box. "No meat and no fish," he sighs. "Jade will be disappointed. Come on, let's give the princess our tribute!"

He leads the way to the ship's galley, where the sight that greets Hendrik _is_ enough to startle him out of his lingering fantasies: Princess Jade, barefoot, stirring a massive pot over the wood stove as Robin chops onions, sniffling every few seconds.

"You couldn't have brought that up yourself?" the princess teases, looking from Sylvando to Hendrik and back.

"I'm sorry it isn't much," Sylvando replies contritely, taking the box from Hendrik and placing it on the table next to Robin. "I threw the last of our apples in, although I don't know if you can use them."

"Actually, yes!" Princess Jade says brightly. "You might not suppose so, but apples can go wonderfully in a stew." Sylvando sits down, takes a knife and a potato, and begins to peel.

Robin wipes his eyes and pushes away the last of his onions, then uses the hem of his shirt to wipe his eyes again. "Done," he sniffles.

"Thanks!" Princess Jade says, coming over and taking the onions away from the grateful Luminary. "Hendrik, what are you just standing around for? There's a lot of peeling to do!"

"Princess!" he says. Words failing him. "Surely, someone else could —"

"I am an utterly hopeless cook," Sylvando says.

"Mum only ever let me peel things for her," Robin says. "She doesn't trust me with the stove."

"Don't be silly," the princess says, brandishing a ladle at Hendrik. "Anyway, I like cooking. Now sit down and get peeling."

Hendrik sits awkwardly across from Sylvando at the table. His old friend is smirking at his second potato.

"Jade's really quite good," Robin says, also peeling.

"Rab isn't much for cooking, and we only stayed in inns so much of the time," Princess Jade says from the stove. "I thought I'd learn to cook to help out, but actually it's quite fun."

"I admire your willingness to work, but surely a princess —" Hendrik sputters.

"Surely a princess what?" Princess Jade retorts sharply. He doesn't dare argue, but she continues anyway: "Hendrik, I may be a princess but I've spent most of my life on foot. I do not spend my time worried about my station."

And yet, was that not more reason that Hendrik ought to treat the Princess with the dignity she has been kept from?

"He's thinking something stupidly noble," Sylvando announces, not even looking up from his potato.

Robin snickers.

"From now on, I want you to think of me as 'Jade' first, not as a princess," Princess Jade announces with a huff, turning back to her stove.

Hendrik peels a potato. If Princess Jade truly wishes it… perhaps he could call her… he cannot imagine addressing her simply as Jade, the way the rest of them do. Would Lady Jade be a preferable alternative? After all, she did order him — and yet, to be so informal…

"It's no use," Sylvando says, "I'm sure he's trying to think of ways to get around your decree. It's all over his face."

Robin snickers. "But really," the Luminary adds, "none of us would mind if you relaxed a bit."

"Well, maybe that's a bit too far for _Hendy_ ," Jade says with an amused sigh, coming over to the table and sitting across from Robin, joining in the peeling as though she was a common woman and not the princess and heir to Heliodor. "He probably only calls you Robin because there's already a 'Lord Robert' in the party."

"It's 'Luminary' more often than not," Robin says.

"I would thank you to not discuss me whilst I am present," Hendrik says stiffly, feeling huge and ungainly from his end of the table. All three of his companions laugh.

"Same old Hendy!" Sylvando giggles. "If only you weren't such a big target."

"Come to think of it," Robin says, "he calls you by name."

"Good point!" Sylvando cries, pointing at Robin with his knife. "Hendrik, darling, from now on please call me The Great Sylvando!"

"I will not," he says.

"But oughtn't it be… Don Sylv, or something?" Robin continues, sounding curious.

"Señorito Norberto, if anything," Sylvando says with a wave of his hand. "Don is for my papi only. I'll accept The Great Sylvando and naught else, honey."

"I still can't believe you two are childhood friends," the princess says with amusement. "I can hardly imagine."

"I wouldn't say _friends_ ," Sylvando says with a demure giggle that sends a dagger straight into Hendrik's heart.

"I thought most fondly of our bond!" he objects immediately, drawing looks from the Princess and Robin, as well as one somewhat too knowing — he swallows. "Did we not train together? Learn the ways of the knight at one another's side? Were we not brothers in arms?"

"Oh, my," Sylvando says, his hands on his cheeks, eyes lowered demurely. "It's just that Hendy-wendy… oh darlings, it's so embarrassing. Can you really call your first love your friend?"

Time stops. Freezes as still as though they had been encased in magical ice. Hendrik forgets to breeze, his knife stopped halfway through a sliver of potato skin. Sylvando is blushing up at him, fingers curled over his mouth — but his eyes —

"That's wonderful!" Princess Jade exclaims, standing up. "I'm so happy for you both!"

"Are you too going to —" Robin breaks off, just as delighted as the princess by this unexpected confession. "No wonder!"

"Has this been going on all this time? Does your father know?" the princess demands, starry eyed.

"Oh, my, we haven't moved past the confession stage!" Sylvando preens, eyes closed, hands on his cheeks. "I'm still waiting for Hendrik to confess!"

The Luminary and Princess Jade, at the same moment, turn to give Hendrik expectant, eager looks, as though hoping to witness him down on one knee, reaching for and grasping Sylvando's hands, proposing marriage surrounded by potatoes.

They look hopeful, excited: Sylvando, just behind them, is every inch the demure, shy maid — but for his eyes, sharp and unexpectedly cold.

Princess Jade must see the fear in Hendrik's eyes, because she clears her throat. "Perhaps some privacy —" she says, glancing over at Robin.

"Of course! We'll be right — er — come find us when you need us!" Robin says brightly, pushing out of his chair.

"Good luck!" Princess Jade says with a wave, ushering the Luminary out of the galley.

The door closes with a heavy sound.

"Oh, my," Sylvando says, pushing back from the table. "They left the pot on the stove. No wonder Robin's mum doesn't trust him cooking!" He stands as well, removing the pot from the fire. After a moment's consideration, he stokes the flames, adding another small piece of wood to it and closing the stove's door. "There we are!" He sits back at the table, picking up his knife and a new potato. "Well?"

It takes another moment, but Hendrik finds his voice. "That was most unkind."

Sylvando doesn't look up. "It was. I'm sorry for it."

"Why did you -?"

"I was cross," Sylvando says, his voice flat and unmodulated.

Hendrik falls silent. Cross? At him? What had he done? How had he offended his friend so — or was it obvious? Had it been something so obvious, so thoughtless, that it had cost him yet another — is he so deficient? Jasper springs, unbidden, never far, into his mind. Jasper, who had once been as close as a brother, closer than any friend. Hendrik had believed their distance natural, a sad effect of age. Had still loved his friend, but sadly, from afar, in memory. The distance a consequence of age. He had believed this, never knowing that he had pushed Jasper aside, ignored his friend until the love between them had curdled… ignorant of his pain… until it was far too late, Jasper's sins were too myriad, to even consider amends.

Had he pushed Sylvando away in the same manner?

"I apologize," he says, bowing his head across the table. "For the manner in which I caused you offense and pain."

"That's exactly it!" Sylvando snaps, his knife and vegetable falling with a clatter to the table as he stands up. "There's being selfless and then there's this knightly act you have going on, honey. You stare and stare and go on and on about the past, want to talk about the adventures of Hendy and Bertie all the time, but you don't _act_ , just put it all in the corner!"

"Ber - bertie?" Hendrik sputters.

"I will _not_ answer your question," Sylvando says, although Hendrik did not yet have the capacity to ask it. "Stop living in your memories and _honor_. If you want to do something, say so!"

"I am a knight," Hendrik says. Sylvando makes a waving motion, turning away in a huff. His hair half escaping its twine. "I am a knight!" Hendrik repeats, more firmly. "My duty is what matters. My service is what matters."

"Do you really think that argument will convince _me?_ " Sylvando asks acidly.

"I suppose not, as you abandoned your duty," Hendrik replies, anger clouding his voice.

Sylvando closes his eyes, and reopens them. "We are not knights on a quest," he says. "We are friends on a journey to defeat Mordegon."

"Robin is the Luminary."

"And I am here as the best of friends, not as his sword," Sylvando says. "Ronnie and Serena and Erik are our dear friends, not his destined protectors. Rab and Jade are family, not a princess and retired king!"

"I am more than happy you have created those bonds," Hendrik says, closing his eyes, gritting his teeth. "They bring me pleasure to witness. And _I_ am a knight pledged to the Luminary's service."

" _I_ want you to be Hendrik," Sylvando says. Hendrik looks up at him, heart suddenly — tight — and his expression softens. "We all do, honey. Jade perhaps most of all. We don't need a knight."

"And this is why you're cross," Hendrik mutters, rubbing his face.

"No, this is why you were on the deck while everyone else was having a lovely afternoon in the galley," Sylvando says. "I'm cross because you're knightly with them, and dishonest with _me_." He sits back down, rests his chin in his palms and elbows on the table. "Well?"

Hendrik cannot think of this dishonesty. Has he not expressed his regard for his old friend's skill? His fondness of their shared past? Is there not even a grain of truth to Robin's earlier observation, that Sylvando is the only of the group Hendrik feels comfortable calling an equal, addressing without an honorific? "I'm afraid I do not follow," he says. "You must know that I value your friendship."

"Is that what you call it?" Sylvando asks, twirling an escaped lock of black hair around his fingers. Hendrik watches, and then realizes Sylvando is smirking at him. "You never change, honey."

Ah. He closes his eyes. Covers his face with one hand. "It - it is true that when we were young, I - well, as you know, one never truly forgets…"

"Your first love?" Sylvando suggests. His tone is playful, but when Hendrik peeks, his expression is soft.

"I confess," he says brusquely, "our reunion — under these circumstances — has brought certain things… back into my mind, things I had believed myself long past. I will strive to act to control these thoughts in the future."

"Is that what you _want?_ " Sylvando asks. Hendrik stares at him in dumbstruck silence. "If you do, say so. If you don't, ask it."

He doesn't know what to say for a long while. The ship creaks softly around them, swaying only slightly: it is easy to forget they're on the sea. Easy to forget the world has ended. Sylvando, his hair unstyled, pulled half back, looks recognizably like the boy Hendrik had known —

He swallows. "I would like —" he starts —

What is he saying? What is he allowing himself to think? He does not want, he does not like, it is not his duty, it is a weakness, _foolishness_ , to indulge upon… upon his… As he tries to decide, tries to understand what he can and cannot have — no, desire. No, he is above, or is it below — beyond all wantings. He is atoning. He must be less a man than a thing. A knight. Sylvando, waiting still for an answer, brushes back his hair. Scratches idly at his neck with a long finger.

He remembers that damned freckle. The smell of wood, of potatoes, of half cooked food — what he wants, what he still wants, is to peel off Sylvando's shirt, to examine what he'd yet to see, how years ago at the cape they had remained clothed, been boys, skinny and shorter, and now —

"I — Why are you offering yourself?" Hendrik sputters, unable to word this hot desire, unwilling to give it a name.

Sylvando's eyebrows tic. He frowns. "Oh," he says, suddenly cold. "Forget it, honey."

"No —" Hendrik, dizzy, stands as Sylvando does. Almost grasps for him. "I do not understand you! You scold me for not expressing my wants, and yet you say nothing of yourself. You claim to dislike discussing our past, and yet lead me to it again and again. Why are you doing this?"

"You could have asked that sooner!" Sylvando snaps back. Hendrik does grasp for him, and closes his hand around only the air: Sylvando draws his arm away in a flash. "Ask me what I want! Ask me why I talk about the past with you! Ask me _if_ I'm offering myself at all!"

Hendrik is frozen, but Sylvando is no longer patient, no longer playing the innocent maid. He is fire and sharp, and Hendrik is reminded of no less than Don Rodrigo, scolding and fuming his pupils for breaking the rules.

"You're off in your own head, berating yourself for having feelings, thinking you're ever so clever, honey, for hiding it so well. You probably have whole novels written, but you've never asked me about it! Never asked if I have feelings for you! If I want to do anything about it! If I've ever noticed the way you stare and stare! I may be silly old Sylv, but I'm not stupid, honey!"

"I did not mean to involve you —" Hendrik stammers, cowed and embarrassed and afraid, some small explosion continuing to roil in his gut and throat and heart: the shame, the embarrassment, and the implied questions and implied answers.

"I am not an object to be molded in your mind into what you want me to be," Sylvando says poisonously.

It is a grave accusation, one that shoots daggers into his heart: it is an unfounded one. Hendrik does not think of him as an object. As a sexual fantasy alone. But Norberto is the one who ran away from home rather than obey his father's dreams, and Hendrik surprises them both with a strangled chuckle. He'd forgotten, or never pieced it together. Just how stubbornly defiant Sylvando could be.

Sylvando glares up at him, his gray eyes narrowed and flashing.

"And if I said - if I said I wanted you, would you leave and change your name in spite?" Hendrik asks, unable to believe his own daring.

Sylvando looks only more defiant — but then his face relaxes. He smiles, despite himself, pressing his hand to his temple. "That isn't the same at all," he murmurs, trying to be angry still, a hint of color in his cheeks.

"What do you want?" Hendrik asks, emboldened.

"For you to lighten up around Jade," Sylvando says, rebellious to the last. Hendrik waits silently, patiently: the one thing, perhaps, he's truly good at. "I've looked at you too, you know," Sylvando says at last, through lowered eyes, composure regained, sly and demure.

"Have - I had not noticed," Hendrik says, embarrassed, thrown.

"What a shock, honey," Sylvando says dryly.

"I -" he stammers, trying to regain the upper hand — and Sylvando wins this duel as well, wins it handily, with ease, reaching up for him (when had he come to this side of the table), grabbing him roughly by the collar, moving up on his toes —

Hendrik's eyes stay open. He is frozen. Immobile. And yet burning hot. Sylvando's lips are soft, his mouth burning hot, his skin smooth and eyelashes long and dark, his hair smelling of — of perfume, something fragrant, sweet, and when Hendrik sucks in a rough breath Sylvando (Norberto) licks at him —

And he is lost.

Grasping at his friend, pulling at him, his narrow hips, the plane of his stomach, smooth and soft to the touch against Hendrik's calloused palms, and it is Sylvando who sucks in a sharp breath, his nails pinching into Hendrik's shoulders… Hendrik pushes at him, thinking: the table, the surface, more…

— Sylvando pushes him, gently, away. Looking down, his face flushed, he clears his throat as Hendrik straightens back up. His right hand still at his ribs. "The potatoes…" Sylvando says, somewhat inanely, and then clears his throat. Regains his composure in a flash, stepping from the table. Pushing his hair away from his face, back behind his ears, a resemblance of his usual style, although he's still flushed and Hendrik stares openly at his lips.

"Well!" he says. "Well! I knew you were holding back, honey…"

Hendrik finds that he enjoys seeing his old friend so obviously flustered. "Was I too bold?" he asks, knowing the answer in the absent way Sylvando touches the places Hendrik just had. Wanting more, wanting to have more than just this past minute — and yet. The potatoes. The cooling pot beside the stove. He feels himself smiling. It is not the time nor the place. And yet!

Sylvando strikes his shoulder with one limp hand. "Don't tease, you're no good at it!" He plays with his hair, deciding something, and then turns back to Hendrik with an extended finger. "Not a word more!"

He grins, catching that finger and that hand in his own, fizzing and hot all over. Grasps his friend's face with his other hand and kisses him once more, realizing:

This. This is what he wants. From the first moment he saw Norberto practicing on the deck, putting together for the first time the boy he'd known and the silly man he travels with now. Comforting him unhappily in the dungeons of Durasil. Flitting about with his parade, so openly — different, so openly surrounded with men who clearly — and the knowledge that Sylvando was the boy he'd known, and wanted, who'd left — fantasizing since then, since that crashing realization, attempting to combine these feelings and desires and not act, never act.

There are perks to acting upon your desires.

Sylvando pushes him away again, gentle, after a moment. Flicks his forehead. "Dinner first," he says. "We've given the children enough time to gossip, don't you think?"

"Aye," Hendrik agrees, with a crashing realization — for all he knows, the Princess has her ear to the door, has listened the entire —

Sylvando smirks, the advantage on him once more. "And come to my cabin tonight," he says, his voice low and coy, fingers curled at his lips. Hendrik explodes a little, looks up, but Sylvando winks, his finger to his lips. "Not a word, honey. We still have a lot of vegetables to peel before then."


End file.
